


Trial of Love

by IndigoDream



Series: Bribe & Reward fics [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (well. sorta. its like the thing), Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Graphic Depiction of Injuries, Graphic Description, M/M, Monsters, Pain, Violence, Vomiting, Whump, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24134224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: They are setting camp by the side of the road, deep enough in the forest, to think that they’ll be safe enough. Geralt has made sure there aren’t any monster tracks around the camp, and they keep the fire low to avoid attracting attention. Jaskier is shivering still, his clothes too thin for the weather. They are on their way to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier’s clothes are never appropriate for the southern weather, but they passed Posada a week ago now, and the witchers’ Keep isn’t far now, perhaps two days, perhaps a little less if they hurry their pace. Geralt hasn’t really paid attention, too distracted by the way his companion chatters and sings as they walk beside Roach.--Geralt and Jaskier are attacked as they are traveling to Kaer Morhen. When Vesemir informs him that the only chance for Jaskier to make it out alive is to have him become a witcher, Geralt has to make the hardest decision of his life. Does he think that Jaskier would be better off dead, or being a witcher?
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bribe & Reward fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745836
Comments: 71
Kudos: 528





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GonEwiththeWolveS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/gifts).



> Annnnd I come back with angst. 
> 
> I'm so sorry. Well no, actually I kinda like what I did right there uh. 
> 
> As with the last whumpy angsty bit, this is dedicated to Alex, one of the lovely mods of the Geraskier Midsummer Minibang discord server!! (Oh yeah, and also one of the person who created that amazing event...) 
> 
> Alex, u need to stop wanting whump on mondays, this is a fact, I can only create monster stories. 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy it though!! <333

They are setting camp by the side of the road, deep enough in the forest, to think that they’ll be safe enough. Geralt has made sure there aren’t any monster tracks around the camp, and they keep the fire low to avoid attracting attention. Jaskier is shivering still, his clothes too thin for the weather. They are on their way to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier’s clothes are never appropriate for the southern weather, but they passed Posada a week ago now, and the witchers’ Keep isn’t far now, perhaps two days, perhaps a little less if they hurry their pace. Geralt hasn’t really paid attention, too distracted by the way his companion chatters and sings as they walk beside Roach. 

Geralt knows his feelings for the man, knows that he loves the bard, but he doesn’t know how to tell him. He doesn’t know if Jaskier would return those feelings, and he doesn’t know if he, himself, could handle the rejection from Jaskier. He loves the bard too much to think about the possibility of them being separated forever. 

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier’s teeth clacks as he gets nearer to the fire, his hands outstretched, almost into the flames. “You’d think we are in the worst winter night, not just nearing the end of autumn.” 

“I told you to wear warmer clothes for the trip to the Keep,” Geralt grumbles and pulls a thick blanket out of his pack. “You need to learn to wear proper clothes.” 

“Is that your way of saying I dress badly?” The offended tone is made lesser by the contented noise he makes when Geralt unfolds the blanket over him. “Thanks.” 

Geralt hums in reply and gets the rations he bought at the last village, two days ago. There is nothing between that village and Kaer Morhen now, only wilderness and the steady mountain grounds. 

It’s almost a pull in his body, to return to Kaer Morhen in the winter. He will be glad to see his brothers and Vesemir again, and he is slightly nervous about Jaskier being there. The castle is in a pitiful shape, despite Vesemir’s best attempts at repairing it during the years, and sometimes, the witchers get too rowdy. Jaskier is fragile, human. He probably wouldn’t like to see Geralt and Lambert training and brawling in the mud, the way they can sometimes do in the mornings, when they are restless. 

“Tell me about your family then,” Jaskier says, now that he is warming up slowly, and he takes the offered jerky. “What are they like? How many are they? You’ve been so mysterious and quiet about it. I don’t want to be dropped in the middle of a pack of wolves only to be eaten alive by your brothers when they realize I’m the bard you keep complaining about.” 

“I don’t complain about you,” Geralt grunts. It’s quite the contrary, actually. “There usually is Eskel and Lambert, and Lambert’s partner, Aiden. Aiden is a witcher from the Cat school. And then, there is Vesemir, our mentor.” 

“Your father then?” Jaskier tilts his head slightly, and Geralt almost smiles. The man shouldn’t be this endearing. 

“I suppose you would call him that, yes,” he admits. 

“And Aiden, is he Lambert’s lover, or is he just his partner the way you and I are travel companions?”

Geralt almost chokes as he eats, and he takes a gulp of water to calm the way his heart had spiked at the very idea of comparing his and Jaskier’s relationship to Lambert and Aiden’s. 

“Definitely lovers,” he grins slightly. “It would be odd, actually, if you didn’t get to hear them this winter.” 

“Hear them?” Jaskier repeats and then Geralt’s words sink in fully. “Oh. Well. I’ve never minded that before, why start now?” 

Geralt laughs slightly, and then his senses latch onto something, the smell of wet fur, and blood and— 

Before he can fully realize what’s happening, wolves run into their campsite. They are bigger than the wolves of the south, mountain wolves can be as big as a man, and Geralt can recognize that those are fully adults wolves. And considering the way their skin sticks to their sides, revealing their ribcage, they are starving. 

His sword is in his hand quickly enough, but he hears a cry behind him. One of the wolf is already on Jaskier, biting at the bard’s shoulder, and the thick smell of human blood invades the air. Jaskier kicks and fights back, but another wolf is on him, tearing at him, the large teeth sinking into the delicate flesh. 

Geralt can’t rush to Jaskier’s help. There are three wolves on him, and despite his attempts, he can’t use magic on them. Magic-resistant animals aren’t unheard of, but they are usually kept by mages and sorceresses, who can use them to battle and attack each other. It’s rare that they are found like this, in the wilderness, and in so large a pack. 

A wolf manages to bite Geralt’s leg, and the witcher grunts, killing it. His sword comes back black with ichor, and he swears. Monsters, shape shifters in the shape of wolves. Fuck. 

Jaskier’s cries stop, and Geralt turns his head as he grabs his silver sword. The bard is lying in a pool of his own blood, his chest barely rising, and his lips are moving in a ragged moan of pain. Large lacerations are all over him, his clothing torn to pieces, and his hands have received the worst of it. There is barely any inch of skin left on them anymore, blood and wounds covering him. 

Geralt takes a few more minutes, going as fast as he can, and he kills all the remaining beasts. Fury and worry make two very strong companion as he rushes to Jaskier’s side, falling next to him and kneeling. 

“Fuck,” he swears as he tries touching Jaskier, but every touch pulls another moan of pain from the torn lips of the bard. “It’s going to be okay, we are going to heal you, I promise, hold on Jaskier, please…” 

He is begging as he frantically tries to press on the bigger wounds, those that are still bleeding. Jaskier’s right hand, covered in bite marks, nail torn away, reaches for him as he whimpers, and Geralt tries not to panic. This is Jaskier, his bard, the man he loves, and he won’t let him die. He won’t let that happen, not right now, not ever. 

He grabs the leftover blanket in his pack and methodically tears it into long, sturdy strips, wrapping the wounds that are the most concerning. He tries to move Jaskier as little as possible, but pain still echoes through the man whenever Geralt has to move him. It’s a slow and long process, but in the end, Jaskier’s wounds are dressed semi-appropriately, and Geralt is almost happy with it.

When he gets to her, Roach has some scratches, but she is looking better than either Jaskier or him, and when Geralt gets close to her, she whinnies worriedly. 

“It’s okay, girl,” he tries saying, but he can’t bring himself to put any faith in the words. “We need to keep going.” 

He puts Jaskier on the back of Roach as carefully as he can, and rushes to get everything they had set up bag in bags. He abandons some ration in his hurry, but it’s alright. He can go without food until they reach the Keep, but Jaskier can’t live without his lute. 

They leave the campsite fast, and as soon as they are back to the road, Geralt hurries Roach into a gallop. She won’t hold the pace too long, not with the weight of both Jaskier and Geralt, but any advance they can get, Geralt is willing to take. He’ll just have to have her alternate between walk and gallop, to try and get ahead as much as they can. 

He holds Jaskier closer to himself, wrapping his cape around him. He doesn’t feel the cold much, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Jaskier is more important than his own well-being, and he needs to protect the bard. 

The ride to Kaer Morhen is a blur after that. He knows they stop a handful of time, to let Roach drink and rest a bit, and during each stop, Geralt redoes Jaskier’s bandages. He leaves behind him a trail of bloodied strips of clothing, but he doesn’t care. Jaskier needs the care, and the blood that still runs out of him worries Geralt’s more.

Jaskier is silent, except for the occasional whimper of pain, and the moans that are wrenched from his throat each time Geralt moves him on and off Roach. He has a high fever, sweating and bleeding through the bandages, and no matter what Geralt does, nothing helps. 

There is no more road when he finally sees the Keep, and he feels relief soaring in him. Vesemir will know what to do, he will help heal Jaskier. Soon the bard will be back to his usual chatty self, and there will be no more blood, and Geralt will protect him. The very idea that Jaskier could not make it through doesn’t even pass his mind. He has to. He has to. 

“Geralt,” Vesemir greets him in the courtyard, and then he stops in his track. “You’ve brought someone.” 

“He’s wounded,” Geralt grunts, the exhaustion of the past two days seeping through his voice. “He needs helps. Please, Vesemir.” 

The older witcher comes closer and takes Jaskier in his arms. “Put your horse away, and meet me in the infirmary. I’ll be taking care of his wounds there.” 

“Is there anyone else already?” 

“Eskel arrived three nights ago, but so far that’s all.” Vesemir turns away and starts walking, and then he falters, looks over at Geralt, frozen in place. “Your bard will be fine. I’ll do everything I can to save him.” 

Geralt nods and holds onto those words as he goes to the stable and puts Roach in her box. Scorpion, Eskel’s horse, is already there, eating hay and looking content with his lot in life. Roach seems happy to have the saddle off and no riders on her back, and Geralt gives her the last apple he had found as a treat. After what she did, carrying him and Jaskier here in a bit less than a day, she deserves some proper rest, and to be pampered. 

After that, he runs to the infirmary, not even pausing to answer Eskel’s greeting. The infirmary is in one of the less used wings of Kaer Mohren. Only Vesemir ever goes there regularly, and sometimes one of them will walk by to get a few ingredients required for their potions, but they try to avoid it as much as possible. 

The rooms where the Trials occurred is too close to it for their comfort. Kaer Morhen is full of ghosts, but the most haunting it can do is to keep existing, and to be their only refuge from the world. A safe haven, Jaskier had called it, but Geralt knows what it is. A tomb for them to die in, and a tomb they go back to regularly. They are slaves of their lives, and the infirmary, the place where Geralt can find his first memories after the Trials, is only a strong reminder of that. 

But for Jaskier, he would do anything. So he walks into the infirmary, and he sees the man he loves, laying down on a bed completely naked, his bandages removed. Vesemir is examining him, and the look on his face is concerned. Geralt doesn’t want to ask why, and yet he does. He has to know. He has to be told what he can do to help Jaskier. 

“Grab me some water,” Vesemir says without waiting for him to ask anything. 

Geralt obeys. For a few minutes, it goes that way. Vesemir orders something, gives him tasks to do, and Geralt obeys without any word back. They clean the wounds on Jaskier, and this time they look much better than before. Vesemir closes the ones he can, makes sure they are all clean. The frown on his face never disappears, and Geralt is afraid to ask. He is a coward, but he can’t bear to hear the words that Vesemir is sure to say. He can’t imagine a life without Jaskier. 

“He won’t make it through the night if we leave him like this,” Vesemir warns, and Geralt’s blood freeze. 

“What can we do?” He caresses Jaskier’s hair, tries to soothe the man as he agitates. “There has to be something we can do, Ves. Please, you have to save him. I… I can’t live without him, I can’t bear the idea of him dying, please.” 

He is crying now For the first time in years, tears run down his cheeks and fall down. The idea of living without Jaskier, of continuing his travels and hunts without knowing that soon, at some point, he’ll meet back with the bard. He would hear Jaskier’s songs everywhere, would be reminded of the man he loves everywhere, and he knows that he couldn’t withstand that. He loves the bard, loves him more than he should. A witcher should not have such an obvious weakness, but Geralt can’t make himself abandon that love. Whenever Jaskier laughs, Geralt’s heart tightens with fondness. They may fight, but Geralt loves him, and he had sworn to himself that he would always protect his bard. And he _failed_.

“There is something we can do,” Vesemir’s voice is low and heavy in the air, and he puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “It might help him survive, but it might not.” 

“What is it?” Geralt is desperate for any solution, for anything that could help Jaskier. “Tell me!” 

“The Trials,” Vesemir says with a sigh. “I could… Recreate something that would mimic them for an adult man. I’ve been tinkering with that for a few years now, and if… You are the son of a sorceress, Geralt, you have chaos inside you, you know this. If you help me, I think we can manage to make a spell, something, anything really, that would give him the enhanced abilities of one of us. And then… a potion could help him.”

A potion. The Trials. Making him one of _them_. Vesemir wants to make Jaskier a witcher. 

“That’s your solution?” He roars the question, furious with rage. “Make him a monster like the rest of us? Condemn him to a life apart from the world he loves?” 

“It’s either we try that,” Vesemir answers calmly, “or he dies. It’s your choice in the end, Geralt. You are the one who knows him the best. Only you can tell if he would rather die or become a witcher. Whether he would rather die than stay by your side.” 

The last point is what really makes Geralt’s resolution falters. If Jaskier could choose… Would he choose to die, or would he choose to stay with Geralt? 

Over the years, Jaskier has made it very clear that he wished to stay with Geralt as much as they could. He has followed Geralt on his monster hunts, despite the witchers telling him not to. Hell, the first time they had met, Geralt had punched him in the stomach and told him to fuck off, but Jaskier had stayed. 

“Why do you keep traveling with me,” Geralt had asked a couple of years ago, as they were eating at an inn.

Jaskier had just finished a performance, and he had laughed brightly. “I want the thrill of the adventure. I want to know what it’s like to be important the way you are, Geralt. I do what I can with my songs, showing people how noble you are and hiding how much of an arse you can be, but still. You are a witcher, and I’m a simple bard. I keep traveling with you because I like you, but also because you get to see a world I barely know. Why do you let me travel with you?” 

The question had surprised Geralt back then. “I didn’t know it was an option to say no.” 

Jaskier laughed, but kicked at Geralt’s shin anyway. “Come on, answer seriously. Why do you let me travel with you?” 

The conversation had been cut short by someone coming in with a contract for Geralt, but now, Geralt knows why he let Jaskier travel with him. It made the hunts worth it, made the suffering and trudging through mud and blood a sufferable experience. Jaskier made his life brighter, made him realize that he could live, rather than just survive. 

“Alright,” he mutters. He keeps his eyes on Jaskier’s face, despite addressing Vesemir. “Tell me what you need to do. 

Vesemir nods, and starts explaining to him the process, preparing the potions and what they will need at the same time. He extends to Geralt a piece of parchment where an inscription in Elder is written, and Geralt focuses on it, learning the way it sounds, the way it looks, the way he is supposed to say it. It’s not a very complicated inscription, but it remains still more complicated than what he is used to. He doesn’t know much Elder. Jaskier does. Jaskier learnt all kind of things at Oxenfurt, and it never ceases to amaze Geralt, each time he hears about it.

“It’s time,” Vesemir states. “You want me to carry him downstairs?” 

Geralt shakes his head and bends down slightly, picking up Jaskier’s limp body. The bard is cold, his pulse so low it feels unnatural, but he is still alive, and for now that’s all that matters. He feels so light in Geralt’s arms, and he knows it’s only a trick of his mind. Jaskier is still the same weight he has always been, but at the same time… It’s his presence in a room, the way he always seems so alive, the way he never seems to stop living and thriving, that is missing. 

The walk down the stairs, in the room where Geralt suffered through endless trials, and his grip on Jaskier tightens. Is he right in doing this? If he were in Jaskier’s position, would he want this? 

“You’re doing the right thing,” Vesemir says gently, and Geralt’s shoulders tense. Was he this obvious? 

“We’ll see.” 

He puts Jaskier on the cold floor and kneels next to him. He kisses the bard’s forehead and murmurs an apology, putting his head on his lap. Vesemir gets the potions ready and gives them to him. 

“Remember the order in which he has to drink them?” 

“Of course,” Geralt snaps, and he takes the first potion. “I passed those very trials, if you remember.” 

Vesemir sighs. “I know Geralt. I just want to make sure your companion has the best chance at surviving.” 

“He will,” Geralt snarls. “Now leave me.” 

The older witcher sighs, shaking his head, but he does leave. The dungeon they are, for it can’t be described as anything else, is cold and damp, but Geralt doesn’t care. He only cares about the man in his arms.

Gently, he tilts Jaskier’s head and pours the first potion down his throat. Jaskier swallows it, gulp by gulp, his body reacting more on instinct than anything. He is awake, barely, but he can’t speak, can’t do anything than moan in pain. 

There are twelve potions for him to drink. By the third, he is retching, covered in bile and blood, yelling of pain and thrashing in Geralt’s arms. All the potions have to be taken at a strict seven hours interval. Geralt doesn’t allow himself to sleep or eat in the meantime. He counts every second in between, appeases Jaskier as best as he can. He remembers doing so for his own Trial. He remembers the pain, the sharpness of the potions as they pierced through his body, breaking down everything. It’s not a fond memory. 

The last potion has Jaskier thrashing so violently that Geralt has to hold him down, in case he reopens his wounds and hurts himself further. It’s a bit of an helpless in any case; when Jaskier has calmed down again and Geralt trusts himself to let go of him, his own hands are covered in Jaskier’s blood. 

By the time the last potion has been drunk, it’s been over three days. Geralt has had him drinking some water whenever he can, and eat. Jaskier is in and out of consciousness. Sometimes, he blinks and looks at Geralt, and his mouth opens as he tries to extend a torn hand to Geralt, but each time, no words come out. 

Eskel and Vesemir have visited, left food and drink for Geralt, but he has barely touched them. He has to be there for Jaskier first.

With the Trial of Grasses done, Geralt knows what the next step is. The one that will really make the difference between whether or not Jaskier will survive. The Trial of Dream, that will give him the enhanced physical abilities of witchers. Before, they would have brought in a mage, woven the spells into the very being of the boy experiencing the trials. But now… 

Now Geralt is all alone, with Jaskier still on his lap. This step will heal him better than the Trial of Grasses, but it’s also the step that is most likely to kill him. 

On his last visit, Vesemir had brough in a mattress and left a knife on top of it, and Geralt knows what it is for. No one else than him can do it. They don’t have the ability to reach any mage, and Geralt wouldn’t trust a stranger with a blade to Jaskier’s body. He barely trusts himself as it is. But he has to do it. 

He deposits his companion’s body on the mattress and brushes Jaskier’s hair out of his sweaty face. His lips are half torn, and there are claw marks on his throat and under his left eye. Still, Geralt finds him beautiful. He is alive, breathing, and with all those marks, he is even more beautiful. He _lived_ through the attack, through the Trial of Grasses and the bloodloss. He is strong. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he takes the knife in his hands, and he closes his eyes to focus. 

He doesn’t use magic much, besides the occasional Axii or Ignis, but he doesn’t have a choice now. So he repeats the incantation he memorized a few days ago, repeats it over and over as he makes the incision into Jaskier’s skin. 

More blood gushes out, and he doesn’t try to contain it. He keeps going as Jaskier yells of pain, the silver blade cutting through his skin where it had not yet been. When he gets to his face, Geralt hesitates. Those scars will disappear as the magic goes, and that means that, if he places the incisions well enough, the wounds on Jaskier’s face could disappear as well. He isn’t sure it will work, but he is willing to give it a try. 

The first incision over Jaskier’s eyes as the bard screaming and try to move, but Geralt stops him from moving. He can feel the blood trickling on his hand, but he doesn’t stop in his incantations. He traces parallel lines, one on each eyes, that go from his eyebrow to his chin, and Jaskier finally stops screaming. His pulse is weak when Geralt checks it, but it’s still there. 

All the cuts done, Geralt stops the first incantation, and starts reciting the second one as he applies salve after salve over each new wounds. His throat is raw, he wants to stop, but he can feel the momentum building, can feel the chaos swiping through the room and taking hold in Jaskier’s body. He can sense the changes happening as Jaskier starts thrashing again, his body convulsing and cracking. 

Jaskier’s yells of pain will always stay with Geralt, who can only stay by his side as the magic takes effect properly. 

He doesn’t know how long he remains kneeling next to Jaskier. He only comes back to himself when Vesemir puts his hand on his shoulder. 

“He’s alive,” he croaks out, and he tries not to resent the surprise in Vesemir’s eyes. “He made it through.” 

“He’ll need the potions to keep healing then. Go rest, I’ll take care of him from now on.” 

Geralt protests, tries to fight back against Vesemir as he is pushed away, out of the room, but his body is too weak from days without eating properly. Eskel is waiting outside, and before Geralt can tries to go back in, he lifts him up on his shoulders and carries him to his bedroom. 

“Sleep,” he orders. “You are no use to anyone when you’re like this.” 

Geralt can’t even fight back. He tries to get back up, but the world fades to darkness as he does so, and he only feels Eskel’s arms around him at the last moment, dragging him back to the bed. 

The sun is high in the sky when Geralt comes back to himself, and he is confused for an instant, before he remembers everything that happened. He eats the bread and cheese that were left on the table in his room and drains the goblet of ale before rushing out of the room. 

Warm voices greet him in the large communal hall. Eskel and Aiden are playing a card game and laughing while Lambert is talking with Vesemir. Sitting on the sofa, with a goblet of ale and an astonished look on his face, is Jaskier. His eyes aren’t the usual golden shade of witchers, and they aren’t his own blue eyes either. Instead, they are green, green like the forest under the warm summer sun. His lips are slightly torn and there is a large scar on his throat, but not on his cheek. 

Geralt falls to his knees at the bottom of the stairs, the sound loud as he looks at this Jaskier, this man he knows and yet who looks so different from the one he loves. Jaskier sees him then, and there are conflicting emotions on his face, but he settles for a slight wave with one of his hand, deeply scared and still an ugly shade of red. 

“Hi, Geralt,” he says, and his voice is still as sweet as ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier woke up two days before Geralt did, and he got to meet all the other witchers in the meantime, and learnt some more about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooh this took a long time! But well, life got me pretty busy, and I was finishing two other fics that will soon be published... So :') It's here now! And the next chapter (hopefully) won't take a month and a half to be posted!! 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter :D 
> 
> Also, this is fully un-betaed and was mostly written in between 11pm-3am on various different nights lmao

When Jaskier blinks his eyes open, the world feels strange. He is in a room he has never seen, and everything is bright, so loud he whines in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes immediately and tries moving his arm to block the light, but searing pain in his shoulder stops him. 

“Don’t move kid,” a voice says next to him, and he feels a hand on his shoulder, gentle but still strong enough to keep him down. “You still need to get the wounds treated, alright?” 

“What..?” His voice is broken and raw and everything hurts so much. 

“Don’t speak,” the same voice repeats, and suddenly he is being sit up gently, the movement making him burn alive again. 

Something is pressed to his mouth and he opens his lips slowly. A liquid is poured down his throat and it burns for a few seconds He groans and tries to move away, but the hands are keeping him in place. He is trapped, and he has no idea who it is talking to him, why they are doing this to him, why is he in so much pain? 

It settles suddenly. His body calms down, and the pain wrecking through his nerves lessens. He rolls his shoulders tentatively and only small ripples of pain echoes through him. He tries opening his eyes again, and the brightness is no lunger unbearable, although it still is brighter than what he is used to. 

“Where am I?” He turns his head to the man next to him and glimpses a wolf medallion. 

The man has broad shoulders and a heavy head of grey hair, accompanied by a moustache that covers half his face. He looks old, but not as much as Jaskier would have envisioned him to be. Vesemir, for it must be him if Jaskier trusts what Geralt had been telling him, is holding another potion in his hand. 

“You’re Vesemir,” Jaskier rasps out. “Geralt, where is Geralt?” 

“He’s resting,” Vesemir says and places the other potion against his lips. “Open up.” 

Jaskier is too weak to resist the order, and the potion burns down his throat as he gulps it down. Why does it have to hurt so much? What even is it? He thinks he recognizes the foul stench of Geralt’s potion, but there is no way that can be it. Jaskier is human, Geralt had warned him against the witchers’ potions; they would kill him faster than they would heal him. 

He coughs when he has finished drinking it, and his body feels so strange as he covers his mouth with his hand. Some blood flickers out on his palm, and he looks at it. Is he dying?

“It’s alright son,” Vesemir pats his shoulder lightly. “It’s normal the first few times.” 

“What is?” He is so lost, he has no idea what’s going on, why isn’t Geralt here? “Please, tell me what’s happening!” 

The old man sighs heavily and looks at Jaskier. “You’re a witcher, Jaskier.” 

It’s the first time Vesemir says his name, and it’s filled with such sorrow that Jaskier wishes he hadn’t said it. It can’t be, anyway. This must be a dream, a nightmare. Jaskier is _human_. He can’t be a witcher. He can’t be. 

When he says this to the old witcher, the man sighs again, a loud breath that rattles his body. Three hundreds years old, Geralt had said Vesemir is. How can such a person exist, and still have some human blood? How can it be? Geralt is a hundred years old, but Jaskier has always had troubles believing him when he said this. After all, he barely looks to be in his thirties. 

“You were dying and we had nothing to heal you. We couldn’t do anything else but see if you would survive the Trials and then administer you some of the potions so that you would heal like a witcher. Thankfully, it worked.” 

Jaskier chokes on his own breath. _Thankfully?_ He doesn’t even know what to think. He is - was - human. He is - was? - a bard. And now? Now he is a witcher. His blood isn’t fully human. He’ll age slower than everyone. He will be able to endure pain like no human can. He will kill monsters. 

Because that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? Killing monsters. There has never been a witcher that didn’t do the witchering business. They are all _made_ for this. Molded since their childhood to kill and protect. Jaskier isn’t. Jaskier is just… himself. A bard, good at singing, good at distracting, good at nothing else. Except perhaps… 

No. Jaskier can’t let himself think about his feelings for Geralt. He can’t let himself think about the way the man’s golden eyes glow warmly in the firelight in the evenings, the way his hands are warm whenever they help Jaskier up. If he thinks about it, he’ll forget the pit of coldness in his stomach. 

That pit is what keeps him from screaming. It’s the only thing that keeps him from sobbing and yelling, from grabbing Vesemir and shouting that no, _no_ , he can’t be a witcher. Because if he is a witcher, he can’t be himself anymore. Jaskier has no idea what he is, if not a bard. How is he supposed to even begin to understand himself now?

“I know it might not be the best change you had envisioned,” Vesemir continues sympathetically, “Geralt was particularly opposed to making you a mutant, or a monster, to use his words, but it’s… It was that or your death.” 

“I don’t… I don’t care about being a mutant, I don’t care about being like him,” Jaskier sobs quietly, tears pearling on his eyelashes as he tries to wipe them away. “I don’t care about that!” 

He shouts the last words and Vesemir startles slightly, looking a bit surprised. Jaskier feels the man’s eyes on him as he tries to calm himself and to breathe again. It’s a struggle, his breathing coming in too fast and too sharply. It almost hurts him to keep breathing, but then he feels arms around him, a bit awkward but clearly trying to be comforting. 

“It’ll be alright,” Vesemir promises, his voice paternal and kind. “It’s a big change, but you’ll be alright.” 

For a couple of minutes, Jaskier struggles to breathe and to stop crying while holding onto the man, his hands digging into the man’s shoulders. It should be strange and uncomfortable, allowing himself to be so vulnerable in front of a complete stranger, but Jaskier can’t help but feel that this, somehow, is right. Vesemir is warm and holds him gently, and Jaskier feels like he is being held by a father he never had. 

When he finally catches back his breath, he looks up to see someone else in the doorway of the room. Three great scars are on his cheek, some of the smaller fragments of it cutting through his lips. His eyes are the same gold as Geralt’s, as Vesemir’s. As his own? Jaskier must have the golden eyes of a witcher now. He doesn’t know how to feel about this idea. 

“I’m Eskel,” the man introduces himself, “Geralt’s brother.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes out and extends a shaky hand. “Geralt has spoken about you.”

He takes his hand back immediately. His right hand is covered in red scars, thick and ugly, bite and claw marks clear despite the fact that the skin looks like it has been burnt. His fingers move when he commands them to, but when he tries touching his fingertips to one another, he feels nothing. 

_No_ , he wants to shout and sob again. _No, please don’t let this be real, please don’t let this be true, not my hands, please, please, not my hands too_. 

He keeps himself quiet though, simply looking up at the man. Yellow eyes stare back at him with scrutiny, and Jaskier wonders what the witcher see. Does he see the weakness in Jaskier? Does he see how Jaskier almost wishes he were dead, so that he wouldn’t have to know who he is now? Or does he simply see Jaskier, the new witcher in their school, looking lost and scared? 

There are so many questions pressing in his head, so many things he wants to know and learn about, but he forces himself to stay silent as Eskel and Vesemir talk. He listens to them talking about Geralt, saying that he is still sleeping, and he wonders how long Geralt has been resting. Was he injured too? Did he need someone to patch him up? 

“Stop thinking so loud, little one,” Eskel says gently. “Geralt is alright. He took care of you during your trials, and now his body needs to rest so that he can be active again. He is alright.” 

Those words are enough to ease some of the worry off Jaskier’s shoulders. 

After that, he comes in and out of conversation for the rest of the day. He falls back asleep a few times, but he finds himself restless quickly. He needs to move, to have something to do with himself. He has never been very good at staying still and not doing anything, and his body is almost fully recovered from the injuries he suffered. 

Still, there is something strange about the way the witchers look at him. After Eskel and Vesemir, he meets Lambert, and then Aiden. The cat witcher is the only one who doesn’t seem unsettled by him. Rather, he tilts his head to the side and extends his left hand, allowing Jaskier to shake it with his own left. 

"Nice to finally meet you," he says in a kind tone. "Sorry it's under the current circumstances." 

"It's not like we planned for it to happen," Jaskier croaks out, his voice still broken after the potions he has taken. "I'm glad to have met you all." 

Aiden smiles, small and easy, and darts away quickly before leaving as Vesemir walks in again. 

"Where is Geralt?" he has asked the question so many times that it has almost lost its meaning now, but he needs to find Geralt. 

If he can't be himself anymore, if he can't be Jaskier the wandering bard, then he can at least be by Geralt's side and pretend everything is alright. 

“He is still asleep,” Vesemir answers, like he has each time Jaskier has asked. His tone hasn’t lost its patience, nor its kindness. 

“When will he wake up?” 

Vesemir sighs. “When his body decides he has rested enough after the hardship he put himself through.” 

“To keep me alive,” Jaskier whispers. “Why would he do that? I’m just a bard.” 

“You’ll have to ask him this yourself, boy.” Vesemir makes him lie down on the bed again. “You need some more rest. You won’t heal properly if you keep trying to move up and about. Proper rest is important for everyone, but most of all for you right now.” 

Jaskier wants to protest, to keep asking questions until he stops getting only vague answers, but he does feel a bit tired still. He closes his eyes reluctantly, and lets himself be pulled under once again. 

When he wakes up the next morning, there is no one in the infirmary. He is alone, and so he profits of that opportunity to stand up, finally. His legs are shaking slightly, but he manages to hold himself up after the second attempt. His hands are still hurt, although the right one is losing some of the puff it had. It is still an ugly red though, and he hates having to look at it. 

He walks to the door slowly, his legs protesting a bit. They are stiff like metal, and he grimaces a bit, but he keeps walking through the pain. He needs to keep going, needs to find back a way to living. If he can’t walk anymore, he won’t be able to walk besides Roach, and he doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side. He doesn’t want to stop being Geralt’s companion, if not his bard. He doubts he’ll ever be Geralt’s bard ever again, with his hand looking so atrocious. He can still barely feel his fingertips, though there is sometimes a spark, and he can feel his body weight on it when he helps himself against the wall. 

With a grunt, he manages to pull the door open, and then adventures down the large, cold corridor. He can hear sounds, people talking, and he directs himself towards it. After all, if he can hear them, it can’t be too far. 

He forgot about witcher senses, of course. It takes him what feels like an eternity to walk to the sound of the noises, but when he does, he smiles slightly. 

Witchers, it seems, are much more of a family than Geralt had let on. Vesemir is reading while the three younger witchers are quarrelling in a most affectionate manner. There are cards exchanged as they trade tasks and duties they have around the castle, and they don’t seem to have noticed him; when Jaskier chuckles slightly as Lambert throws his cards on the table, his face full of frustration, they all turn to him as one. 

Their eyes are all so golden, and he finds himself in an alternate reality suddenly, where everyone surrounding him is a witcher, except for him. Well. He _is_ one of them too now, isn’t he? His eyes must be the same shade of golden, must have the same cat-like pupils.

“Ah, you’re awake, good. Didn’t think you would be able to walk on your own already, but well.” Vesemir shrugs and comes closer to him. “How are you feeling?” 

“Sore,” Jaskier rasps out the words, and he sighs a little at how tight his throat feels. “Starving too.” 

“Ah, your body must be needing more food and energy than before, what with your recent transformation. Come sit down on the sofa with us, and I will get you some food. Some warm drink as well, I’m sure you could use some stiff drink. Although, that’ll probably need to wait. You are still healing, and any strong alcohol might hinder that.” 

Vesemir is already steering him towards the couch even as he talks, and Jaskier lets him, staying quiet the whole time. He waits quietly for Vesemir to come back, feeling everyone’s stare on him. Before, he would have loved the attention, and some part of him still does. He knows that the attention isn’t anything positive though; after all, they must be staring at him, wondering why _he_ got chosen by Geralt and Vesemir to be a witcher too. 

Frankly, Jaskier would like to know that as well. Vesemir had mentioned Geralt wanting to keep him alive, but why? What is there in Geralt that had made him feel so desperate to keep Jaskier alive? He is nothing special, besides his friend and bard. He is just a normal human. 

Well. Not anymore. He is a mutant now, isn’t it? Mutagens have been injected in his body, and Chaos has made a nest in his mind and… 

Jaskier shakes his head slightly, trying to keep the thoughts away from his mind. He needs to remain calm and focused, if he wants to understand everything happening to him. 

“You alright?” Eskel sits across him in a comfortable looking chair, and he frowns slightly. “Anything we can do to help?”

“Why do you want to help me so badly?” Jaskier mutters, trying to not sound as inquisitive and demanding as he wants to be. “Are you, in some misfortune, indebted to me? Did Geralt make you promise to make sure I wouldn’t throw myself off a cliff as soon as I realized I was a witcher as well?”

If he listened to himself, he would shake the witchers up and down, asking for answers without allowing them to divert the subject. He needs to know why those witchers are helping him like this, why they keep checking in on him and making sure that he is fine. He needs to know what is going on, exactly. 

“I’m not on Geralt’s, or anyone’s, orders,” Eskel sighs. “I know this is a lot to take in, and I know that you must not be happy about being a witcher but-“

“How many times must I repeat myself?” Jaskier wants to yell, but his voice can barely stands a whisper at the moment. “I don’t care about being a witcher. I don’t hate it, and I don’t hate witchers. I love Geralt, for who he is, and that includes being a witcher! Why would I hate being a witcher, when it is the reality of the man I love?” 

He gasps a bit as the words finish leaving his mouth, and then he realizes what he said. He shrinks further on himself, clutching his knees tightly as he tries not to think of what they will all say. Will they tell Geralt? He doesn’t want them to. He doesn’t want Geralt to know about his pathetic feelings, about the way that Jaskier can’t look at anyone else and mentally compares them to him, or even about the way he has phantom memories of pain mixed with relief as he screamed while being held. He can’t let Geralt see him as this awful, dreadfully bad friend. If Jaskier were a good friend, he would have left as soon as he realized that he had feelings for Geralt.

“Good to know that Geralt’s love for you is returned,” Eskel smiles gently, reassuringly. “We didn’t know you two were a couple, but we-“ 

“What? No! We are not,” Jaskier interrupts himself, narrowing his eyes at the witcher. “Are you mocking me?” 

Eskel looks puzzled at the question. “Why would I?” 

“Because I’m-… I’m Jaskier! Just Jaskier, and a man, and a bard, and Geralt’s friend yes, but obviously he doesn’t love me, because I’m a _man_!” 

A hand falling on his shoulder startles him, and he looks up to see Aiden standing there, a stern look on his face. 

“Geralt wouldn’t have made you go through the trials if he weren’t utterly devoted to you. He loves you. The fact that you are a man does not change anything about that. We are witchers here, already freaks of society simply for existing and slaying monsters that they cannot handle themselves. Loving men is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Jaskier says, his voice slowly coming back to its natural state. “I’m just saying that Geralt does not love _me_.” 

There is dry laughter rising from Lambert, who is still sitting at the table. When the last wolf witcher turns to him, he isn’t smiling, but he still manages to look mocking and amused at the same time. 

“You are more of an idiot than I thought if you believe that Geralt doesn’t love you. Do you think he would have brought anyone to Kaer Morhen? Asked Vesemir to make anyone into a witcher? He stayed with you the whole time, despite his own fucking health, so much that he has been passed out for two days now. So listen to us, he is in fucking love with you.” 

“He does,” Eskel asserts with a nod. 

“It’s pretty ridiculous how much he does actually,” Aiden adds with a roll of his eyes. “And that’s just from hearing him talk _about_ you last winter. Oh and also the fact that he put you through the trials because he could not bear to lose you.”

It takes a few seconds for Jaskier to register what they all said. Geralt _loves_ him? It can’t be. He had spend years thinking that the witcher could barely tolerate him, that there was nothing he could do that would ever get him any thanks or acknowledgement of friendship. It’s only been in the recent years that it has changed, and this trip here had cemented in his mind that Geralt’s friendship had, at least, been secured. 

It can’t be that Geralt returns his ridiculous, fanciful feelings. Jaskier has been trying to escape those feelings for years, falling into people’s beds more easily than he ever would have, had he not been traveling with Geralt. 

“It’s alright,” Eskel’s hand falls on his shoulder, patting it lightly. “Take your time with it. But don’t forget it.” 

“I… won’t,” Jaskier answers, and it isn’t a sentence as much as an oath. He’s pretty sure he’ll never forget this strange conversation until the day he dies. 

The witchers scatter a bit after that, Aiden and Lambert returning to their card game, and Eskel stays sitting close by, looking at Jaskier. Vesemir comes back, bringing food and a steaming cup of what smells like cider. 

“Here you go, son.” Vesemir gives him the plate. “Have a go at it, you must be famished.” 

Jaskier hadn’t really noticed anything, but the moment the food is in his mouth he realizes that he is starving. He devours the meat in the plate in an instant, and the rest doesn’t last long either. He feels almost animalistic as he resists licking the plate clean. He is still hungry, his stomach empty of anything for so many days he doesn’t want to think about it, but he forces himself not to ask for more of it. 

“You have questions,” Vesemir observes as Jaskier fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Don’t be afraid.” 

That’s the thing. Jaskier _should_ be afraid. He should think this is completely insane, that he doesn’t want this life, that he doesn’t want to have anything to do with witchers… But he isn’t afraid, not in the slightest. He feels strangely calm. The piece has a quiet atmosphere, familial and loving, and when the other men tease each other, he can sense a fondness that he has never seen in his own family. 

“Am I really a witcher now?” 

“We think you are, yes. The trials affected your body, and you didn’t die from taking the potions, which are mostly fatal to non-mutated humans.” 

“Why only think? Don’t I look like a witcher?” 

Silence falls over the room. It isn’t any comfortable, gentle silence, in which they give him the time to adapt to this new reality. No, this is full of tension, of unspoken strife that he has walked into without even realizing. He looks around, and none of the witchers meet his eye. 

“Tell me,” he demands, using the voice he had heard his father use so many times on servants, the voice he hates the most in the world. “You can’t leave me to double guess everything. Tell me.” 

There is a sigh, and Vesemir opens his mouth to refuse him. Jaskier can see it in the way he is frowning and looking down at the floor, as if he were wishing for it to find an answer in the cut stone. 

“Oh for all the gods’ sake,” Lambert swears from behind him, and he moves out of the room quickly. 

When he comes back, he is holding a mirror. He dusts it off and extends it to Jaskier, his expression somber. 

“Better you see by yourself, bard.” 

The last word is meant as an insult, Jaskier is pretty sure of that, but it makes him feel slightly better anyway. Even if he is a witcher, he could still be a bard. If he gets his hand under control, that is. 

He grips the mirror with his left hand, not yet ready to try handling anything with the right one, and slowly focuses on his breathing. His heartbeat is so slow in his chest, so slow and loud, and his breathing is matching it. With a bit of apprehension, he turns the mirror and faces himself. 

The eyes he had been expecting to be golden are green, a beautiful green that he wants to despise. He can’t quite bring himself to hate them completely, but he misses his blue eyes suddenly. It’s a sharp pain in his chest, a longing for those eyes that used to define him. Almost every person who had loved him had first noticed that, and every lover he had taken to bed had commented on it. They were a part of him, and it was taken away from him. 

_Your eyes for your life,_ he scolds himself as he stares at his reflection. _Which one do you prefer? To be dead, or to have green eyes?_

Jaskier doesn’t have to think to know the answer to that. It is so easy to remind himself of how narrowly he had missed death. He only has to look down in his reflection, see the thick scar that run down his neck. Red and bulging, it looks ugly. Still, it’s a proof he is alive, he thinks. The bright side of things is hard to see, but he tries. He can’t let himself fall into despair. 

“Why?” He asks this simply, turning his head to Vesemir, who sighs again, his hands clasped. 

“I don’t know. Not for sure. The Trials… They were usually administered with a mage around, and the herbs might not have been the right ones exactly. You are much older than anyone else who has ever survived the Trials as well. It might have played into this. You still have many attributes of a witcher still, although I need to run a few tests on you to see the extent of it, and how much you’ve mutated. Of course, you won’t be just like Geralt, since he went through extra trials, but I’m thinking that you’re probably a lesser witcher than Eskel or Lambert as well.” 

_A lesser witcher._

It shouldn’t surprise Jaskier that in this new life he has been given, he is lesser to the others. He was always destined to be lesser, that’s what his parents used to say. That’s what everyone in Oxenfurt had said. Jaskier was brilliant, but didn’t have the ambition, the real bite it took to be a court bard. He would be lucky if he happened to be hired at a local court, they had said. 

He had risen to be the most famous bard on the whole Continent, all on his own. He had never cared for settling down and staying in one place. He had never been lesser, no, he had simply been different. It seems he is different here too. 

He doubts he’ll ever find a place where he truly fits in. 

“I see. Thank you.” He smiles, sweet and easy, a smile that he has given to husbands and fathers after debauching their wives, or daughters, or sons. 

Jaskier had never lacked talent. He had never lacked _ambition_ either. Rather, his ambition had been so different from theirs, they hadn't been able to perceive it. They all wanted power, to be listened by the wealthy and to compose songs by the side of a roaring fire while a servant kept their wine fresh and plenty. Jaskier had wanted freedom. 

Maybe he will get it here. Maybe he will truly become who he was meant to be. He might yet prove that he isn't any lesser, despite his deficiencies. 

They move away from him, their eyes meeting above his head, but he doesn't say anything. He stays on the soft cushions, enjoying the warmth and comfort of the Keep. He drinks his cider, and his voice slowly comes back to him.

Lunch is a quiet affair, with Eskel bringing the food to them, save for one plate that he takes upstairs. Jaskier doesn't need to know where he is going to know what he is doing. Closing his eyes, Jaskier tries to listen to the sounds coming from upstairs. 

He misses Geralt, wants him by his side, to tell him to stop being such an idiot and to start getting used to it. 

Eskel comes back empty handed, but he shakes his head. 

"He's still sleeping," Eskel reassures him. “But I’m sure that he’ll soon be awake. He was moving in his sleep at least, which is more than the last time I went upstairs to see him.” 

Jaskier nods, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what he would answer, regardless of what the witcher had said. After all, what is he supposed to say? Geralt loves him, and he loves Geralt, but Geralt has never said anything. He hasn’t either but… Jaskier had thought he was expressive enough with his attentions, with his obvious admiration. He thought that Geralt knew and was sparing his feelings by saying nothing. 

He stays this way, in quiet contemplation, until he hears noise upstairs. The others don’t seem to have noticed, all busy with each other as they are, but Jaskier is alone, nursing a slowly cooling drink, and he has been waiting. The stone seems to whisper to him as he waits, and he doesn’t bite his lips, but it is a near thing. He wants to burst in a run, to go upstairs and find Geralt. He wants so many things that it turns his heart a little bit now. 

Everything feels so sharp, whether it is in his body or in his mind. Everything has become brighter, more solid and real, and yet, it has made him feel less real somehow. He is suspended in between two things, half-human and half-something else. He doesn’t know how to reconcile that, doesn’t know if he can. If Geralt feels the same way, he certainly has never adjusted, and Jaskier can’t blame him. Maybe though, maybe now that Jaskier is like him... Maybe they could figure it out together. 

Geralt appears at the bottom of the stairs, and if Jaskier hadn’t already been waiting for exactly that, he knows that he would have found himself drawn to him regardless. Geralt is _warm_ , there is no other way to put it. Jaskier feels pulled towards him, feels a link to the man that he had never felt before. It’s love, but it’s more than that. There is, in his heart, an absolute faith and trust, a knowledge that Geralt will help him no matter the cost. 

After all, Geralt made him like this. Geralt was the one who took the decision to save his life and make him a witcher, and Geralt had stayed with him the whole time, if Jaskier is to trust the other witchers. Perhaps, Jaskier can believe that he is loved by the White Wolf. 

There is a loud noise that alarms the others as Geralt falls to his knees, his eyes focused on Jaskier only. The gold seems even more beautiful than before, and Jaskier wonders if his eyesight has truly been changed so much that he feels as if he is discovering colours anew. 

He raises his hand, and waves. “Hi, Geralt.” 

There are tears in Geralt’s eyes, something Jaskier has never seen before, and he slowly stands up. His legs hurt, but he pushes beyond the pain, beyond what his body feels. After a few steps, he reaches Geralt, and his hand touches the cheek of the witcher, slowly wiping the tears that are falling. 

“Hi, my love,” he whispers, and falls into Geralt’s open arms. 

He is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D I hope y'all enjoyed it! 
> 
> As always, you can come see me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) and don't hesitate to leave a comment/kudos :D They always help the writing go faster!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, and some confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... h e l l o 
> 
> I've returned from radio silence on this fic oops. I swear I wanted to do it faster, but then I got caught up with irl stuff, and with finishing my fics for the Geraskier Midsummer Minibang, and whoops time flew by me.
> 
> Anyhoo, here is the last chapter! I decided to keep it short and sweet, and to let the ending be slightly open...
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt is a bit shaken, at being called Jaskier’s love, but he isn’t about to protest. He buries his nose in Jaskier’s brown curls and inhales the scent there, feeling the slow heartbeat. It’s not a normal human heartbeat anymore, but Geralt doesn’t care about that. He cares about the man in his arms, alive and breathing, clinging to him like he is his lifeline. 

They are each other’s lifeline, if he is honest with himself. If Jaskier hadn’t made it through… Geralt doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to imagine a life without Jaskier, without the bard singing while playing on his lute while they walk by Roach’s side. He would rather… No. No need to think about this. Jaskier is here, alive. 

Geralt can hear Vesemir ushering the others out of the room, and he can hear Lambert snickering as he leaves, Eskel hitting him slightly, and then Vesemir’s sigh as he closes the door behind them. He would almost miss his family, but at the moment, Jaskier is all he can focus on. Jaskier and his warmth, his newly green eyes and his beautiful voice. Jaskier who looked at Geralt so many years ago and decided that he would fight until his last breath for this witcher. 

“You’re here, you’re really here,” Geralt sighs as he hugs the other man tighter. “I thought I would lose you, that I would never get to tell you…” 

He stops himself, trails off, and Jaskier moves back slowly, sitting on his own knees with a wince of pain. Immediately, Geralt gets back up and lifts him in his arms delicately. His own body protests slightly at the sudden movements, but Jaskier’s small gasp of surprise, and then the soft noise of contentment are enough to have him forget the pain. He places Jaskier on the couch and intends to sit away from him, but Jaskier has other plans, tugging on Geralt’s arm until Geralt is sitting right next to him. 

“Much better,” Jaskier smiles softly and drapes his legs over Geralt’s lap. “What did you want to tell me?” 

After years together, Geralt knows how to read Jaskier. There is the little upturn of his lips that indicates fondness, the soft lilt to his voice that mean he knows more than he is saying, or even the way his fingers flex against his shirt; all of those, Geralt knows, and a thousand more.

“I… Do I really have to say it?” Geralt’s hands settle on the legs of the other man, caressing his ankle delicately, half making sure there are no sprains or breaks. “You know it already.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier admits with a tender smile. “But I value the spoken world more than most, and I would like to hear you say those words, my dear.” 

Geralt groans and closes his eyes. He can still feel the exhaustion of the previous days tugging at his mind, but he owes it to Jaskier, to say the words. If their situation were reversed, if Geralt had taken the first step and called Jaskier his love, it would only be fair that Jaskier voice the words properly for the first time. And yet, Geralt is struggling. The words dance on the tip of his tongue, break in his throat. He wants this to be perfect for Jaskier. Because Jaskier deserves to have a grand declaration. 

Poets and lyricists have nothing on Jaskier, when it comes to the beauty of language. With a twist of the tongue and a charming wink, Jaskier turns words into weapons or caresses. Songs become plays, tragedies acted out through his voice. That is why Geralt is struggling so much with his words. How can he ever come any close to Jaskier’s masterful use of language?

“There is no right or wrong to say it,” Jaskier says softly, and he moves slightly, so he can come up to sit properly on Geralt’s lap. “You could say it like this: ‘I love you’ or like this: ‘You’re the best thing that has happened to me, and despite years hiding my feelings, I know that I love you,’ or even like this: ‘I know what just happened was scary, I know that we were both afraid and that we almost lost each other. I know you must be terrified out of your mind of losing me, but I’m fine now. I’m fine because the man I love is holding me, and there is nothing in the world that could make me move away from his arms. I love you, Geralt of Rivia, and I don’t think so much love was meant to be contained in a human body, but I love you so much it hurts some days.’” 

He smiles gently and presses a light kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “See? Many ways to say it.” 

Geralt knows there is a stunned look on his face. He must look absolutely stupid, with his smile slowly widening and settling on his face, an unusual feature of his. One he thinks might become permanent when Jaskier is in his arms though.

“It’s not so easy for me,” Geralt whispers, hiding his face against Jaskier’s neck again. “I don’t have your way with words.” 

“I don’t need a grandiose declaration, dear heart. I just need your voice, your words, to tame down the worries beating at my heart.” 

With a nod, Geralt straightens up, his hands sliding to hold Jaskier’s waist delicately. He can do this. 

“I’m scared that if I fuck this up, you’ll realize that I’m just an idiot and I don’t deserve your love,” he starts, squeezing Jaskier’s waist to stop him from interrupting. “I didn’t even realize how much I loved you until we got attacked, and then… I thought I had lost you forever. I thought… I thought I’d never hear you laugh or sing or talk and… I would have rather died than let that happen. Because I love you. I love you, Jaskier. You are the only good that has ever come out of the Path, and if I believed in the gods, I would thank them everyday for it.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier presses his forehead against Geralt’s, and there are tears running down his cheeks. “You can’t put all of your happiness just on me, my love. You are a bright, beautiful, loving person, and you must see it… But until you can, I will always be there to remind you.” 

“Always?” 

Geralt’s hopeful tone doesn’t go amiss and Jaskier nuzzles closer, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. “Always. I adore you, my witcher.” 

“You are my witcher as well now,” Geralt whispers and looks up at Jaskier slightly. “If you want to be, that is. You can still be a bard, you know, no one will notice with your green eyes and-“ 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier soothes him gently and caresses his cheek. “I want to be with you. That’s all I want. As a bard, as a witcher, I don’t care. I’ve stopped caring the minute I woke up and you weren’t by my side.” 

“I’m sorry, I wanted to-“ 

“Shhh, love, I know. I meant that I knew that I had to stay with you. Even if you hadn’t loved me too, I would have asked to go with you.”

The soft declaration almost finishes shattering Geralt’s heart. Jaskier’s declaration is so honest it hurts, twisting a knife in Geralt’s stomach. The bard loves him, just as much as he loves the bard, and it astonishes him to realize that. After all, who would have thought that Jaskier would love _him_? Geralt has hurt his bard so much, has broken his heart over and over again. 

“I can almost hear you thinking you don’t deserve my love,” Jaskier sighs disapprovingly. “How many times must I say it? I love you, I have loved you for years now. This isn’t going to change. How must I say it, so that you will finally hear it?” 

“Kiss me?” Geralt isn’t brave enough to say the words properly. They are broken whispers that barely rise from his throat, but Jaskier’s eyes widen ever so slightly. 

Despite this, he nods and gently leans forward, so that their lips touch delicately. It isn’t a kiss, more a peck on the lips, and Geralt frowns a bit, chasing after Jaskier’s lips. A proper kiss, that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs. He wants to feel Jaskier’s love through their kiss, wants to learn every secret those delicate lips hide, until he is completely drunk on them. 

They stay kissing until both of them are panting, and Jaskier chuckles slightly. “Who would have known the great Geralt of Rivia would be rendered breathless by such a mundane thing as a kiss?” 

“A kiss from you is anything but mundane,” Geralt shrugs, shameless. “I don’t think I could ever imagine growing tired of kissing you.” 

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is warm, tender. It feels like coming home. “How can you keep saying those beautiful, lovely things? You are taking away my very reason, my love.” 

“You have been the only thing on my mind for months,” Geralt admits and presses a tender kiss to Jaskier’s hurt hand. “I was too foolish to realize what it meant, but now? Now I’m never going to spend a second with telling you how much I want you in my life, how much you matter to me.” 

Jaskier’s cheeks are red by the time Geralt is done speaking. “I had no idea you were this romantic.” 

“You bring it out.” 

Jaskier laughs a bit, more of a giggle than anything else, and he lets his head drop on Geralt’s shoulder. They stay embracing like this for a few minutes, both breathing in the scent of the other and enjoying the comforting presence that is the body against their own. 

Trying to hide it against Geralt’s shirt, Jaskier yawns discreetly, and Geralt smiles softly. “You are tired. How long have you been up?” 

“A few hours, maybe?” Jaskier sighs slightly. “Don’t make me go back to that empty room. I want to say with you, please?” 

He nuzzles at Geralt’s neck, dropping a delicate kiss there, and Geralt sighs, his resolve crumbling away. “Alright then, we can stay here some more. I bet the others are listening on the other side of the door anyway.” 

Jaskier hums. “Say, now that I am like you… Will you teach me? How to be a witcher like you?” 

“You don’t have to,” Geralt says quickly, taking Jaskier’s hands in his own gently. “You don’t have to be anything different because of what I did to you.” 

“What you did to me? Geralt, you saved my life. You gave me a new chance, a way of helping others and protect you. A way to finally be a companion worth your while. Please, I want to learn.” 

“I can’t.” Geralt looks away. “I won’t. I wouldn’t be able to teach you. I would… I wouldn’t be fair to you. You matter too much to me. I love you too much to even try to attack you, so that you may learn. After… After the Trials, I can’t… I couldn’t bear to see you hurt by my hand again. When I had to…” 

“Shhh,” Jaskier soothes him, and Geralt realizes there are tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. “It’s alright. I’ll ask one of the others. It’s alright, my love.” 

Geralt drops his head on his shoulder and lets himself be held. He should be the one to take care of Jaskier, and yet, like always, Jaskier is the one taking care of him. He doesn’t have the strength to argue against it though, simply holding Jaskier tightly in his arms. This is the life he is allowed to have now, one where Jaskier stays with him, and he stays with Jaskier, and they have the opportunity to live together, until destiny decides to part them. 

They hold onto each other for the rest of the day, talking quietly and sharing soft kisses, neither of them willing to let go. When the rest of Geralt’s family joins them, there is nothing much that they say; Lambert teases them, but as far as his teasing goes, it is rather gentle, and Jaskier, from his spot on Geralt’s lap, answers the teasing lightheartedly. 

In Geralt’s mind, the picture of a future together begins getting clearer. Jaskier, learning to fight, possibly from Aiden. A more delicate, more light and deadly in the silence of the night, would fit him better, after all. Jaskier is strong, muscles developed from years spent walking by Geralt’s side, and even more time spent playing the lute and getting into reckless fights at taverns; he doesn’t have the brutish strength most of the Wolves have though. His strength is more of a surprise to people, who see the bright bard and don’t expect the sharp tongue and deadly fists. So yes, perhaps Aiden would be the best suited at training Jaskier. 

His hands, even if they look untreatable for now, will heal, and he will learn to play again. Even if his right hand isn’t perfect anymore, Geralt knows that Jaskier will persist until he can play at the same level as he did before the accident. If not with his right hand, with his left. Geralt has no doubts about that. 

As they curl up in bed together, Jaskier so close that his heartbeat and Geralt’s get confused in Geralt’s ears, Geralt is overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has this now, and this won’t change. Jaskier is here to stay, despite everything that happened, and Geralt will never stop being thankful for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, short and sweet! (for me at least lmao) 
> 
> If anyone wants my own headcanons as to what will happen next: Jaskier learns to fight and is pretty good at it, but he decides that he prefers being a bard anyway :D
> 
> But feel free to image whatever you want!! Thanks for reading this fic and enjoying it <3

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOPLA 
> 
> A second part will be coming!! Soon-ish. idk when exactly but give or take 2 weeks max, I'd say!! 
> 
> Leave a comment! Or kudos! Or both :D And if you want to chat, come see me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) ! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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